‘Art,’ Cameron’s voice was tight, ‘if Alan McRae’s warrant card is here…’
He didn’t need to finish the sentence. If McRae’s warrant card was here, in a building owned by the man he’d been investigating, it meant something very bad had happened in this warehouse. And Barry Mitchell’s rushed visit tonight suggested he either didn’t know the card was there or had come to retrieve it after realising it had been missed during the clean-up.
Art pulled out his phone, his mind already racing through the procedures they’d need to follow. But then when they were in court and came up with the gas excuse for coming in here, they could throw out the warrant card evidence.
‘We need to get out of here,’ he said, taking the warrant card.
22
THURSDAY
The call came at 6.47a.m., dragging Brodie out of a dream he couldn’t quite remember but which left him with a vague sense of unease. Detective Superintendent Breck’s voice on the line was professionally neutral, but Brodie could hear the underlying tension.
‘Another body. Burntisland beach this time. Same signature.’
Brodie was already swinging his legs out of bed, reaching for the clothes he’d laid out the night before – a habit from years of early morning call-outs. ‘When was it found?’
‘Dog walker, just after six. Uniforms secured the scene, and Dr Holmes is en route. I need you there.’
‘Give me forty minutes.’ Brodie ended the call and moved quietly through the flat, not wanting to wake Ruth. But she was already stirring, sitting up in bed with that knowing expression of someone who’d been through this routine too many times.
‘Another one?’ she asked softly.
‘Burntisland.’ Brodie leaned over to kiss her forehead. ‘I’ll call you later.’
‘Be careful, Liam.’
The drive from Newhaven to Fettes station took twenty minutes through the early morning traffic, which was already building despite the hour. Brodie had arranged to pick up Lucy Warren from the office, and it made sense to travel together rather than take separate cars.
Lucy was waiting outside the building when he pulled up, carrying a travel mug of coffee and looking alert despite the early hour. She’d tied her dark hair back in a practical ponytail and wore a dark suit that somehow managed to look both professional and ready for tramping across a beach.
‘Morning,’ she said, sliding into the passenger seat. ‘Thanks for the lift. My car’s making a weird noise, and I didn’t want to risk it breaking down halfway to Fife.’
‘No problem. Coffee any good?’
‘It’s caffeinated, which is all that matters at this hour.’ Lucy settled her bag at her feet. ‘What do we know about the body?’
‘Almost nothing yet. Found about an hour ago, positioned like The Embalmer’s signature. That’s all Breck told me.’ Brodie merged onto the A90, heading north towards the Queensferry Crossing. ‘We’ll know more when we get there.’
They drove in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the radio playing softly – some early morning news programme discussing politics that Brodie wasn’t really listening to. The sky was overcast but bright, that peculiar Scottish morning light that could mean sunshine or rain within the hour.
They crossed the Queensferry Crossing, the steel structure gleaming in the morning light, the water below grey and restless. Brodie found himself thinking about The Embalmer’s psychology – the need to display, to arrange, to create these tableaux of death. Gabriel Kane had called it artistry, but it was something darker than that. It was possession, control, the ultimate expression of power over another human being.
They drove through Burntisland, a coastal town that had grown up around its harbour and beach. The High Street was still quiet, just a few early risers heading to work or walking dogs. Brodie followed the blue lights towards the links, where a collection of police vehicles marked the crime scene.
The beach at Burntisland was similar to the beach at Pathhead Sands where the first victim had been found. Access tunnels ran under the road and railway line, dark Victorian passageways that locals used to reach the shore. It was through one of these tunnels that Brodie and Lucy would need to walk to reach the body.
As they parked and got out, Brodie saw a familiar figure emerging from his car – Dr Ronald Holmes, carrying his medical bag and wearing his usual expression of professional focus. He quickly pulled on his white forensic suit, then raised a hand in greeting when he spotted them.
‘DCI Brodie, Lucy.’ Holmes’s voice carried that characteristic blend of competence and regret. ‘I understand we have another one.’
‘So it appears,’ Brodie replied.
The three of them walked together towards the nearest access tunnel, showing their identification to the uniformed officer maintaining the perimeter. Rust-covered girders carried the railway line above, and the rust bled down the white-painted walls. Their footsteps echoed in the confined space as they made their way through, emerging onto the promenade. The smell of the salt water hit Brodie’s nostrils, not a bad smell, he thought. It brought back memories of his childhood when his parents would bring him and his sister over here for a day at the beach. No bodies back then, just playing with a bucket and spade and eating candyfloss afterwards.
The forensic tent had been erected about thirty yards fromthe waterline, its white fabric stark against the grey sand and darker rocks. More uniformed officers maintained the inner perimeter, and Brodie could see the scene of crime team already at work, photographing the scene from multiple angles.
DS Cameron Reid emerged from the tent as they approached, his face showing the same grim recognition they were all feeling. ‘Sir. Dr Holmes. Same as before – young woman, positioned carefully, no obvious signs of violence. The only difference is, she isn’t naked like the last one.’
